


An Interlude

by Miracule



Category: Sons of Liberty (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, i am trash, sick!fic, this is so dumb i hate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:11:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hancock gets the flu and everyone (including Sam) is a little concerned.  Just a little one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to do some research for this and then i was like "fuck that" so it may not be 100% accurate (then again, neither is SoL). be warned: this is a shameless fluffy sick fic but it's good i guess

“We cannot expect to alter the minds of these delegates by appealing to their sense of righteousness. Good god, Sam, they are the _most_ self-righteous of the lot!”

Sam waved dismissively in the direction of his cousin. “I will not trouble myself with _them_. _You_ meet with them, if you wish. If you don’t care for the way I conduct myself, I will not waste—”

Hancock, who was leaning against the wall of the parlor, felt as if Sam’s words had suddenly become very difficult to hear—as if they were being submerged, slowly, into a pool of water. It was a strange sensation that did nothing to settle his nerves. That morning, he had risen with a pain in his head and he’d found himself quite unable to stomach breakfast.

He bent his neck a little and experienced a rush of dizziness. He tried not to think much of it, but his disposition was naturally fearful, and he had a particular fear of illness.  

Perhaps it is too hot, he figured, although nobody else seemed to find the pleasant May weather too disagreeable. Pale sunlight poured into the parlor through its little windows, which Adams had ordered to be thrown open.

And yet, as Hancock fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his brow, he found that he could hardly stand to be in the light.

“What say you, Mr. Hancock?” John Adams demanded, with a flush in his cheeks. Sam scoffed to himself and made a show of crossing his arms.

Hancock endured another disquieting bout of dizziness as he straightened his back. “I do not...” he paused, “I fear I wasn’t entirely listening.”

“That is unlike you,” Sam sneered. “You’re always listening, even when the matter doesn’t concern you.”

Hancock grimaced. He was in no mood to take abuse from Samuel Adams today. “I _am_ sorry, Sam, I was only thinking of something else...” His stomach turned, and he realized then that this was not going to be swept under the rug.

“I do not believe, _gentlemen,”_ he pronounced the word carefully, “that I will be able to accompany you about town today.”

Sam peered at him; the sneer had vanished from his countenance.  

“Are you ill?” John asked.

Before Hancock could answer, he imagined that the floor was beginning to drop away under his feet. Only, it wasn’t, and logically he knew that. However, when the walls began to close in, he felt a strong desire to flee the room. “Ah,” he sighed. “Excuse me...a moment. 

That was the last he remembered of his time in the parlor. 

After they had carried Hancock to the couch, loosened his clothes, and called for fresh water, Sam thought that he felt a little ill himself. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, as if he’d come face to face with an armed redcoat. Why did this have to happen _now_ , of all times? Was he ill? If so, how serious was it?

All of the color had drained from Hancock’s face, and a thin veneer of sweat shimmered on his brow. John touched his skin—eliciting a soft moan—and grimaced a little. Sam looked pointedly at his cousin, but Hancock’s voice immediately grabbed their attention.

“G-Gentlemen, I assure you,” his words sounded paper-thin, “I am quite all right. Over-worked and underfed, perhaps...” He trailed off, as if he had simply lost the desire to speak. Sam managed to meet his gaze, and noticed that Hancock’s eyes were unusually bright.

“I am sorry,” Hancock finally continued, glancing away. “I must’ve surprised you.”

“You did,” Sam admitted. “You seemed well this morning.” This came out rather reproachfully, which he regretted instantly.  

But if Hancock noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “I did not _feel_ well. I had a—a...” he gestured weakly toward his head. “I felt tired, I suppose...more so than usual. But this...this was q-quite unexpected.” He smiled the ghost of a smile, and Sam released the breath he’d been holding.

“I’ll call for a doctor,” John assured them both, giving Hancock’s shoulder a light squeeze.

Hancock seemed strangely indifferent. “Very well,” he said. “Thank you,” he continued, as if he had just remembered that it was the proper thing to say.

When a boy finally arrived with a jug of water, Sam took it from him and waved him away without a word. Somehow, Hancock noticed this and muttered, “You should have thanked him. You can be so _terribly_ rude.”

Sam shrugged. “You’re right; I didn’t think.” He had no will to argue with his friend—not now. He poured some of the water into a cup, and brought it to Hancock’s lips. “Drink a little. 

Hancock obliged, but he didn’t seem very interested in the endeavor. He frowned, closed his eyes. “Good Lord,” he said, with some effort. “Won’t you close the curtains?”

Sam rose slowly and did as he was bid. “Better?”

“Oh, yes.”

Hancock sat up a little and leaned against the arm of the couch. “My father fell ill when I was seven years old,” he said, with a slight tremor in his voice. “He died soon after.”

“You’re not going to die,” Sam assured him. He wasn’t entirely sure, of course, but he couldn’t bear to think of the alternative.

“My poor mother couldn’t take it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Sam,” Hancock snapped, “Don’t patronize me. If I do die—no, I have considered this many times already—spend the last of my money as you see fit.”

“John...”

“All I need for my grave is a simple stone. No lavish funeral. My uncle would have never approved, but what can we do? Well, perhaps a small procession.” He was losing energy quickly, and paused to close his eyes. “You figure it out.”

John returned some forty minutes later with the doctor in tow, and the man—who was understandably skittish around Sam—pronounced it to be a case of the flu.

He offered to perform a blood-letting, although Hancock balked at the suggestion and insisted that he could not stand the sight of blood. “Later,” he bargained. “If I do not improve at—at a reasonable pace, then do it.”

The doctor looked anxiously toward the cousins, and Sam seriously considered forcing the procedure on his friend. But a shrill “Not yet!” from Hancock swayed his determination.

“Fine,” Sam agreed. “Later.”

The doctor closed his satchel. “Then keep his body warm and his head cool. He needs rest, and quiet. Feed him later today; whatever he can stomach. I will return tomorrow morning, regardless of whether I hear from you.”

Sam wanted to reprimand his friend for refusing to follow the doctor’s advice, but there simply wasn’t time to do so. After they carried Hancock to his room, he fell into a feverish sleep and didn’t wake up until that night.

A servant went into the parlor around six o’clock and informed the men that Mr. Hancock was awake and asking for Samuel.

Sam looked at John, who simply told him, “Good luck.”

The moment Sam stepped into the room, Hancock smiled and said, “Come in!” as if he were ushering a king into his quarters. But his veneer of pleasantness quickly died away, and Sam could see that Hancock’s complexion remained worryingly pale.  

“Will you take some food now?” Sam asked, as he settled into a chair.

Hancock grimaced and waved his hand. “No. I only wanted to tell you...my dear friend...that I do not mean to die. No, the w-work we do is too important.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I will persevere.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. “I know you will,” he replied, awkwardly. “You’ve always been stronger than I give you credit for.”

Hancock was characteristically delighted by this display of human emotion. “Oh, Sam,” he said, warmly. He opened his mouth as if to continue, but then thought better of it. Finally, he sighed, “I’m not so sure if that’s true.”

That night, Sam didn’t leave his bedside until Hancock insisted that he wasn’t likely to sleep with an audience. He was ill, that much he knew, and he was frightened. But when he’d swallowed a few mouthfuls of stew earlier that evening, he had started to feel a little more himself.

He began to believe that he might live, and when Sam left the room, Hancock didn’t feel the need to say his goodbyes.

He slept well, and although he woke up coughing and aching all over, John informed him that his temperature had gone down. Even the doctor seemed satisfied, and didn’t insist on any treatment besides bed rest and clean drinking water.

...

Three days later, Hancock decided to _insist_ upon taking a stroll. He had been up and about around the house, but now he desperately wanted to go outside. The sunshine, which had disgusted him only a few days before, was now the only thing he could think of.  

When the boy came by with his breakfast, Hancock told him to fetch Sam; that he wanted to take a turn around the garden.   After swallowing his eggs and coffee, Hancock spent the next fifteen minutes in eager anticipation.

Sam came into the room wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s hot,” he warned. Hancock shrugged; held out his hand.

“Won’t you help me?”

A while later, he and Sam walked arm-in-arm among the maple trees. Sam had offered, and how could Hancock refuse? He realized that he wasn’t likely to walk so familiarly with his friend again.

“I should be able to rejoin congress soon,” Hancock suggested.

 Sam shrugged a little. “Take your time. How do you feel?”

“Ah...weak, but, ” he tightened his grip around Sam’s arm, “In good hands. Oh, look! Exquisite, isn’t it?”

 He paused to examine a blossom in the grass and heard Sam heave a long sigh.

 Hancock plucked the flower from the ground and held it up to him. “Is it not young and beautiful, Mr. Adams? A little like our new United States of America?”

 “Not yet,” Sam reminded him.

 Hancock scoffed. “You and I know perfectly well that it will happen. Public opinion is with us.”

“We’d like you to be there,” Sam said, trying to sound indifferent.

Hancock smiled and nudged him with an elbow. “Come, Sam...Enough politics. Let’s walk.”

...

note: and then they made out the end


End file.
